14.rappaport Beyon Part Observation PDF

Beyond Participant Observation: Collaborative Ethnography as
Theoretical Innovation
Joanne Rappaport
Collaborative Anthropologies, Volume 1, 2008, pp. 1-31 (Article)
Published by University of Nebraska Press

DOI: 10.1353/cla.0.0014
For additional information about this article

http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/cla/summary/v001/1.rappaport.html
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Beyond Participant Observation
Collaborative Ethnography as Theoretical Innovation
joanne rappaport, Georgetown University
The past decade has witnessed a growing interest in collaborative

ethnographic methods in North America. Most recently, the Latin Amer-
ican Studies Association introduced a new initiative, Other Americas/
Otros Saberes, aimed at funding collaborative research between
academics and Latin American indigenous or Afrodescendant orga-
nizations.1 A series of collaborative projects with indigenous and
African American communities have demonstrated that collaboration is
not only a moral choice for progressive ethnographers but a choice that
makes for good ethnography (Field 2008; Lassiter et al. 2004; Ridington
and Hastings 1997). The growing appeal of collaborative research has
also been reflected in the pages of major anthropological journals
(Castañeda 2006; Field 1999a; Lassiter 2005b); it is mirrored by a call for
a “public anthropology” attentive to pressing public issues and written
in a language accessible to an educated general public, and by a turn
toward a politically engaged “activist anthropology” (Hale 2007, 104).2
Collaborative ethnography has been defined as
an approach to ethnography that deliberately and explicitly emphasizes

collaboration at every point in the ethnographic process, without
veiling it—from project conceptualization, to fieldwork, and,
especially, through the writing process. Collaborative ethnography
invites commentary from our consultants and seeks to make that
commentary overtly part of the ethnographic text as it develops. In
turn, this negotiation is reintegrated back into the fieldwork process
itself. (Lassiter 2005a, 16)
Such an endeavor is not new to anthropology, nor is it confined to the
North American anthropological arena: it can be traced back to Boas
and his associates (Berman 1998), and it has been a mainstay of African
American activist anthropology (Gwaltney [1980] 1993). It is also prac-
ticed widely by Latin American anthropologists working with social
movements (Bonilla et al. 1972; Vasco Uribe 2002) and nongovernmen-
tal organizations (Riaño-Alcalá 2006). The products of collaborative
ethnography include coauthored pieces (Field 2008; Fletcher and La
Flesche [1911] 1992; Ridington and Hastings 1997; Vasco Uribe, Dagua
Hurtado, and Aranda 1993), edited volumes in which anthropologists
and local researchers present their findings (Lassiter et al. 2004), pub-
lications for consumption by local communities (Lobo 2002; Reynolds
and Cousins 1993), and single-authored books that acknowledge the
collaborative context in which they were produced (Field 1999b; Lassiter
1998; Lawless 1993; Rappaport 2005a; Urton 1997).
The bulk of the English-language literature on collaboration focuses
on the substantive content that results from this brand of research,
ignoring the specificity of its methodology: how researchers come to
learn through collaboration. As I hope to illustrate, the local agendas
that community researchers bring to the collaborative endeavor are key
spaces in which we can begin to discern the potential contributions of
collaboration. It is precisely the possibility of constructing alternative
research agendas outside of the academic orbit and, correspondingly,
pursuing alternative forms of analysis, which make collaborative
ethnography different from traditional participant observation or,
for that matter, from methodologies in which subjects participate
as research assistants but have little control over the research. What
I wish to accomplish in this article is to focus on collaboration as
a space for the coproduction of theory, which is, I will contend, a
crucial venue in which knowledge is created through collaboration.
My aim is to discover why such an approach is not only morally or
ethically necessary—an argument that has become well represented
in recent public anthropology literature (Scheper-Hughes 1995)—but,
more importantly, to what extent it bears potential for nourishing
and revitalizing anthropological thought (Hale 2007). I also hope to
turn the attention of North American readers to the particular brand
of collaborative research that has been going on for years in Latin
America, and in Colombia, particularly. Using methodologies that
2 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008
merge research with activism, anthropological collaborations in
Colombia function as spaces in which co-theorization takes place,
nourishing both the political objectives of community researchers and
the academic analyses of scholars. Refocusing our sights outside of the
North American orbit will help us build new intellectual genealogies
that can potentially nourish our goal of promoting collaborative
anthropology.
Colombian Anthropology and Social Engagement

Following the lead of my Colombian colleagues, who are searching for
an approach to anthropology originating in the global south, in this
article I intend to draw upon Colombian collaborative ethnography as
a paradigm that could have an impact on our understanding of what
collaboration means, shifting our emphasis from the production of
ethnography as a central goal to that of engaging in activist research
that is equally productive in a broader sense for both the professional
ethnographer and the community. Social engagement lies at the
heart of the emergence of a distinctly Latin American anthropology
(Ramos 1990). Intense, sometimes radical, engagement characterizes
Colombian anthropology in particular, marking it as distinct in style
from its northern cousins, which are by nature more academic in
focus or aligned to the priorities of mainstream institutions (Oliveira
1999–2000). An emphasis on the political in Colombian anthropology
is evident from the choice of topics of study, which today pay close
attention to conflict, ethnic movements, and social inequalities, probing
the moral and political fiber of Colombian society (Jimeno 2004;
Ramírez 2001; Ulloa 2004). Most importantly, however, Colombian
insistence upon social engagement has resulted in a distinct way of
doing anthropology.3
Myriam Jimeno (2000, 2005, 2008) argues that Colombian anthro-
pologists are “citizen-researchers,” for whom the “exercise of the pro-
fession is simultaneously the exercise of citizenship” (2000, 160). This
owes to the fact that Colombian academic researchers feel themselves
to be part of the social realities they are studying, leading them to share
a sense of citizenship with their subjects: “The sectors studied are not
understood as exotic, isolated, distant, or ‘cold’ worlds, but as copar-
ticipants in the construction of nation and of democracy” (2005, 46;
Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 3
cf. Correa 2005). Such a proximity between the researcher and the re-
searched leads to the creation of “a space of meta-academic debate”
in which intellectual work “has implications for social life and for the
practical significance of the exercise of citizenship” (2005, 51). What
this has meant in practice is that Colombian anthropologists tend to
privilege the use of workshops and other collective venues as research
methodologies (Zambrano 1989), the formation of interdisciplinary
research teams, the adoption of historical modes of investigation that
uncover the history of existing inequalities (Pineda Camacho 2005),
and a brand of participatory action research pioneered in Colombia
that inserts anthropologists into grassroots political and social strug-
gles as activist-scholars, fostering collaboration simultaneously on
the political level and at the level of ethnographic analysis (Caviedes
2003; Vasco Uribe 2002; cf. Bonilla et al. 1972; Fals-Borda 1991). As a
result, the research of the anthropological community only sometimes
comes to fruition in classic ethnographic monographs. Scholarly
work is reported in articles, essays, and historical monographs, but
it also flowers in other written genres that are of greater utility to the
communities being studied, including publications aimed at popular
consumption, journalism, political documents, testimonial narratives,
and primary-school textbooks. Much of what transpires in these
activities is not written at all, unfolding in workshops whose contents
are only imperfectly captured in the summaries stored in organizational
archives but which have lasting impact in communities. As a result, we
cannot think of the work of Colombian anthropologists as exclusively
encoded in the written channel, nor of fieldwork as embodying entirely
scholarly ends, nor, indeed, of ethnography as an applied pursuit
mediated by official institutions in the sense that we understand
applied anthropology in North America. Colombian anthropologists
orient themselves toward broad audiences—not only reading publics
but also grassroots organizations and other popular sectors—creating
a particular brand of public anthropology.
Collaborative Research as a Vehicle for Theory Building

One of the most valuable contributions that Colombian collaborative
research can make to anthropology across the globe is in the grounding
of collaboration in co-theorization. By co-theorization, I mean the col-
lective production of conceptual vehicles that draw upon both a body of
anthropological theory and upon concepts developed by our interlocu-
tors; I purposefully emphasize this process as one of theory building
and not simply coanalysis in order to highlight the fact that such an
operation involves the creation of abstract forms of thought similar in
nature and intent to the theories created by anthropologists, although
they partially originate in other traditions and in nonacademic contexts.
Understood in this sense, collaboration converts the space of fieldwork
from one of data collection to one of co-conceptualization.
Let me be more specific about what I mean by co-theorizing. Co-
lombian anthropologist Luis Guillermo Vasco engaged in pointed
theorizing with his interlocutors from the history committee of the
Colombian indigenous community of Guambía. Their oral history
project was conceived and directed by local researchers who did not
serve as “consultants” to an ethnographic project proposed by an
external researcher but as full team members who engaged the services
of the anthropologist once they had set their own research priorities.
In the years before undertaking their research, the Guambianos were
involved in a process of land-claims that expanded their territorial base
and strengthened the legitimacy of their traditional authorities. For
them, historical research was a way of connecting cultural revitalization
to their objectives of reclaiming territory lost in the nineteenth century
and demonstrating that they were native to the reclaimed lands.
Vasco, an anthropologist at the National University of Colombia
and an activist in organizations in solidarity with the indigenous
movement, worked for several decades with a Guambiano research
team to develop theoretical constructs out of local material culture
and language use, in the service of creating novel narrative vehicles for
recounting the past in what we might call a “Guambiano tonality.”4 In
particular, they engaged the motif of the spiral, present on petroglyphs
and in straw hats, as a vehicle for breaking the mold of Western linear
forms of historical narration (Vasco Uribe, Dagua Hurtado, and Aranda
1993; cf. Rappaport 2005a, chap. 5), which allowed them to recount the
Guambiano past through circular narrations. These stories constantly
sight back on primordial beings associated with key topographic sites
that are also locations of significant land-claims activity. The team
did not simply interpret the historical narratives they collected from a
“Guambiano perspective” but created what we might call theoretical
concepts out of their everyday realities.5
The co-theorizing done by Vasco and his collaborators might be
thought of in a very general sense as an example of a thorough and
conscientious ethnography, in which exegesis takes place between
ethnographer and subject. However, collaboration is more than “good
ethnography,” because it shifts control of the research process out of
the hands of the anthropologist and into the collective sphere of the
anthropologist working on an equal basis with community researchers.
It was the group of Guambiano researchers, themselves aware of what
theory is and intent on building it, who appropriated the spiral as a
conceptual tool and shared this approach with Vasco. Significantly, the
spiral is not a motif that earlier ethnographers of Guambiano culture
had identified but a construct that Guambiano intellectuals derived
from their own analysis of its ubiquity in their everyday lives as well
as in commonly used metaphors identified by Guambiano linguists,
which depict social relationships as “rolling and unrolling” (Muelas
Hurtado 1995). This process of creating conceptual vehicles to interpret
historical materials was grounded in the political objectives of the
Guambiano authorities, building upon a model of participatory action
research pioneered by Orlando Fals Borda (1991) that explicitly oriented
research toward grassroots political objectives and laid the foundations
for much of today’s collaborative work in Latin America. By means of
historical research, the Guambianos sought to document their ties to
their territory.
Vasco’s Guambiano interlocutors took away with them new modes
of interpretation that they could engage beyond the academic sphere,
in community spaces in which writing is not the ultimate goal (Cas-
tañeda 2005), and where the results of historical research could be
interpreted in the Guambiano language (which, although it is written,
is not widely read outside of the classroom). Vasco (2002) contends
that the team’s central objective was the development of a collective
ethnographic research methodology, not the creation of ethnographic
texts. In fact, he argues that for the first six months of the project,
the team had no intention of writing up its research, which was to be
translated into picture-maps for internal use; they began to write only
when community authorities asked them to do so and provided them
with a list of research topics (Cunin 2006, 28).6 Subsequently, a host of
Spanish-language pamphlets, initially in mimeograph form and later in
print, disseminated the narratives within Guambía (Dagua, Aranda, and
Vasco U. 1989; Tróchez T. and Flor 1990). The first of these pamphlets
contained pointed critiques of previous anthropological writings on the
community, demonstrating that when subordinated groups adopt the
ethnographer’s craft, they must pay as much attention to what others
have written about them as about their own culture, a standpoint that
Rey Chow calls “being-looked-at-ness” and identifies as a hallmark of
what she calls “autoethnography” (Chow 1995, 180).7
However, the results of the research were not confined to internal
pamphlets. The most prominent project in which this collaborative
history was subsequently incorporated was a far-ranging development
plan constructed by the Guambiano authorities, which would guide
their efforts at revitalizing an autonomous public administration and
incorporating new territory into a land base that could no longer sustain
their growing population (Guambía, Cabildo, Taitas, and Comisión de
Trabajo del Pueblo Guambiano 1994; cf. Gow 1997, 2005, 2008). The
project also resulted in coauthored texts, aimed largely at an academic
audience (Dagua Hurtado, Aranda, and Vasco 1998; Vasco Uribe, Dagua
Hurtado, and Aranda 1993). What these scholarly texts achieved was
the legitimization of Guambiano autoethnography in academic circles
(Cunin 2006, 30), bringing to light a new epistemology of fieldwork,
where the field is a place for creating conceptualizations, as opposed to
a space of data collection.
There is, indeed, a growing recognition on the part of more
conventional North American ethnographers of the significance of
recognizing that what happens in the field is much more than data
collection. George Marcus (1997) argues that traditional methods of
participant-observation predicated upon the notion of rapport ignore
the broader contexts within which ethnography takes place: they do
not pay heed to the colonial or neocolonial contexts in which fieldwork
unfolds, nor to the multiple locations from which knowledge must
be drawn in order to conduct research in the contemporary world.
The recognition of such constraints calls for a new approach to field
research which, Marcus suggests, must be premised upon a kind of
complicity between the (external) ethnographer and (internal) subject.
Complicity is, for Marcus, an intellectual symbiosis through which
connections can be made to the multiple global contexts that impinge
upon—but range beyond—local knowledge; this is something that he
does not appear to think can be accomplished by the internal subject
working in isolation from the ethnographer (1997, 98). Marcus
provides various examples of such complicity. In his article he cites a
study of highly educated members of the European right (Holmes 1993
in Marcus 1997); also complicit is his own research with the Portuguese
aristocracy, written in the form of an electronic-mail dialogue (Marcus
and Mascarenhas 2005). The kinds of complicity that seem to appeal
to Marcus indicate that it is most likely to unfold in the presence of
cosmopolitan and educated subjects, such as the elites he has studied,
who can comprehend the big picture that the ethnographer hopes to
paint and can expand upon the ethnographer’s concerns in lengthy
and complex expositions. He argues that this approach, which pays
heed to global connections through what I take to be an exegetic
dialogue, places the anthropologist “always on the verge of activism,
of negotiating some kind of involvement beyond the distanced role of
ethnographer” (1997, 100).
I must admit, however, that I am perplexed by Marcus’s assertion,
given that there is a great deal of distance between complicit dialogic
involvement and activism, which to me are not necessarily coterminous,
and should not be, in some ethnographic contexts (such as the study of
the European right, which I, for one, would not promote). I also think
that his assertion misinterprets the political role that ethnographers
can play, which most certainly can involve collaboration through
joint creation but does not necessarily imply activism, which, I would
argue, entails a skill set that anthropologists as scholars do not bring
to the table. There is also a gap between the one-way question-and-
answer dialogue that characterizes ethnography in general (Tedlock
and Mannheim 1995; cf. Marcus and Mascarenhas 2005, 103) and the
reciprocal dialogues of Vasco, in which questions and answers are
coming from both parties in a bidirectional movement.
The kind of complicity called for by Marcus can, however, hold
the potential of converting collaboration into a charged and fruitful
methodology, if we take his suggestion further, to comprehend not
only complicity in an ethnographic dialogue (which is frequently of
greater interest to the ethnographer than to the subject), but complicity
in achieving the goals of the subject through conducting joint research.
This can occur only when we shift control of the research process out of
the ethnographer’s hands. In this scenario, the external ethnographer
is not so much on the verge of activism as of enhancing activist agendas
by entering into dialogue with methodologies already chosen by the
community. When Vasco left the fundamental decisions concerning the
research agenda to the Guambianos, the team began to ask questions
of local history that an external anthropologist might not necessarily
have considered and interpreted historical materials within novel
frames of reference. Clearly, this called for a deep external knowledge
on the part of the Guambiano researchers, including a comprehension
of academic forms of analysis, an appreciation of what theory is, and
an understanding of the broader history of indigenous land loss in
Colombia as well as a facility in data gathering.8 What Vasco brought
to the table was a broad command of comparative ethnography, a
familiarity with indigenous organizing beyond Guambía, a knowledge
of anthropological theory that could be placed in dialogue with
Guambiano “concept-things,” the experience and legitimacy of a
successful academic author, and a willingness to subordinate his
own objectives to those of his coresearchers.9 The border between the
internal subject and the external ethnographer, as Marcus describes it,
was blurred in this project, given that both the Guambiano researchers
and Vasco had access to distinct forms of external knowledge, and
above all, because this was not a team of “internal subjects” and of
“external ethnographers” but was composed of highly sophisticated
and well-read ethnographers, both external and internal, with different
knowledge sets and methodologies that were placed in dialogue with
each other.10
Co-Theorization with the Colombian Indigenous Movement

In the remainder of this article, I will argue the significance of co-the-
orization for a revitalized ethnographic practice by thinking through
my own collaborative experiences in Colombia with an interethnic
team of indigenous researchers, Colombian anthropologists, and
North American scholars studying politics in the department of Cauca
in southwestern highland Colombia since 1991, when a new constitu-
tion recast the country as a pluriethnic and multicultural nation (Van
Cott 2000). The starting point for our methodology emerged out of the
work of the Guambiano history committee, our central objective being
cotheorization. Our team operated in association with several regional
and grassroots indigenous organizations whose goals are to promote
Native rights in a country that only recently recognized the existence
of indigenous citizens and to reform the Colombian state by injecting
into it a radical brand of democracy in which minority participation is
not diluted by an insistence on the rule of an electoral majority (Mouffe
1995). As a result, the indigenous team members participated in the
project, not in the spirit of promoting ethnographic research for aca-
demic ends but with the express intention of harnessing the research
experience to the goals of their organizations.
The aim of our project was to study local politics as a scaffolding upon
which we could establish a horizontal dialogue that would recognize
and build upon our different research agendas, conceptual approaches,
and methodologies. Cauca is unusual in Colombia, given that a
plurality of its population is indigenous, whereas only some 2 percent
of Colombians in general would identify as Native; Cauca is also the
home of the Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca (CRIC), Colombia’s
oldest indigenous organization, which has the capacity to mobilize tens
of thousands on short notice. CRIC’s membership includes numerous
indigenous groups, the Nasa being the largest group in the region,
numbering approximately 120,000. In our project, we intended to look
at indigenous organizations as significant players in the formation
of multicultural policy, most frequently from a contestatory position
in negotiation with the state. In particular, we hoped to explore the
multiplicity of levels at which indigenous activists are organizing—
from national and regional organizations to subregional associations
of community authorities and local councils.11 The team included two
Colombian academics from the Universidad del Cauca, two foreign
academics, and two community-based Nasa researcher-activists.
We did not write together, nor did we conduct fieldwork as a group.
Instead, each member had his or her own research project (mine
focused on cultural politics in CRIC), which was brought to the table in
written or oral form and collectively analyzed at periodic team meetings
(which were recorded, transcribed, and available to all team members).
We agreed that such an approach would encourage professional
anthropologists and indigenous researchers to operate on a more equal
basis. In other words, the team was essentially a space of reflection
and theory-building. Our understanding of what constituted theory
derived from CRIC’s own research experience, from our knowledge of
the Guambiano history project, and from our scholarly reading (which
all of us had engaged in from distinct disciplinary perspectives in
anthropology, linguistics, and pedagogy).
The methodologies we employed in our individual projects varied.
While the academics tended to privilege participant-observation and
in-depth interviewing, the Nasa members also engaged in a form of
introspective analysis in which they constructed typologies in Nasa
Yuwe (their native language) in order to organize their ethnographic
data according to what they identified as Nasa criteria (Rappaport
2005a). All of us participated in projects spearheaded by various
indigenous organizations and local communities in addition to
conducting research on our own; our collaborations ranged from
lending assistance in development plans, serving as note-takers at
regional meetings, cooperating with organizational research projects,
writing bilingual intercultural curricula for primary schools, and
assisting Nasa women’s organizations. The aim was to allow our
activism to enter into dialogue with our individual research projects, so
that, in a sense, we were simultaneously external analysts and internal
actors, something I will return to at the end of this article.
The indigenous members of the team continually emphasized that
although they appreciated the ways in which our dialogue helped
develop their writing skills, in the final instance they hoped that the
collaborative space could engender new methodologies revolving
around their indigenous subject position. For them, the team was all
about subjectivity, about forging a place at the table as indigenous
researchers and developing an intellectual agenda that met the needs
of their organizations. Susana Piñacué and Adonías Perdomo, the two
Nasa members of the team, saw the development of a collaborative
methodology as an urgent task that would build bridges between
indigenous researchers and communities, and between those Native
researchers and their academic counterparts, something that Piñacué
observed at one of our meetings:
I would say that more than writing a thick tome (mamotreto) I hope
to consolidate a methodological proposal. . . . In the coming year I
hope this work will produce methodological points that can impact
the different spaces in which we operate. There are many Native
people who are doing research. What kind of approaches are they
using? How are they writing it up? Where are they publishing? What

are they writing? For whom are they writing? From an indigenous
perspective. . . . But there are also many professionals from different
disciplines who are still writing with that archaic mentality: you are
the informant, I am the researcher, tell me in so many words. . . . So,
thinking it out somewhat ambitiously, how can we have an impact in
those circles? (Susana Piñacué, August 8, 2001)
Conversely, many of the academic members of the team entered into

collaboration under the assumption that we would engage in scholarly
publishing, but we swiftly discovered we were to be absorbed in a more
far-ranging project that involved methodological innovation, something
that could potentially have a greater impact than would the contents of
our research. As scholars familiar with academic discussions about
reflexivity, we were drawn into a new arena of conversation about the
topic, focusing on why identity is central to the construction of theory
by Nasa autoethnographers. As will be apparent in what follows, self-
consciousness about being Nasa or an outsider was not only central to
our exchanges but became the conceptual vehicle through which we
made sense of our research.12
Central to our objective of transforming methodology was the
creation through collective dialogue of a number of key concepts—
theoretical vehicles—that would guide our research. Contrary to
the Guambiano example I described above, these concepts did not
originate in specifically Nasa cultural forms but were grounded in the
rich organizational culture of the Caucan indigenous movement in
which all of us were to some degree enmeshed. The remainder of this
paper will focus on one of these theoretical constructs, looking at how it
developed in our open-ended team meetings. My analysis centers on the
meetings (and not on our individual research methodologies) because
they functioned as the principal site in which our co-theorization
unfolded. I conclude with a discussion of the utility of co-theorizing for
anthropologists and our interlocutors.
“Inside” and “Outside”

During the five years our team worked together, we developed a concep-
tual framework that revolved around an opposition between “inside”
and “outside,” a construct that arose out of the reflections of the indig-
enous members of the team regarding their own problematic insertion
into Native communities. Inside and outside are metaphors frequently
used by CRIC members to contrast Native and non-Native social, cul-
tural, and political spaces. At first glance, the inside/outside opposition
appears to be a rigid and essentialist dichotomy that simplifies a com-
plex reality, since it imposes an exclusive topographic metaphor upon a
dynamic and heterogeneous social landscape. But in the course of our
team discussions we discovered that the inside was more than simply
the indigenous community in opposition to the outside of the national
society. In our analysis, the two spaces could be almost juxtaposed, de-
pending on the context. Indigenous intellectuals—the political leaders
and cultural activists in these organizations—move between the space
of the Native community and the urban world of indigenous organizing
and regional politics, yet they feel alienated from their indigenous base
and constantly seek nourishment in constructs of indigenous culture.
Longtime non-Native collaborators—colaboradores, in CRIC parlance,
who along with the organizational leadership, form the backbone of
the organization—inhabit a kind of an inside in concert with indige-
nous activists, in opposition to members of other sectors of the region-
al society. CRIC leaders who participated in the ideological training of
an interethnic but largely indigenous guerrilla organization active in
Cauca in the 1980s, the Quintín Lame Armed Movement, were posi-
tioned outside while non-Native combatants affiliated with the organi-
zation were on the inside. The inside of the culturalist discourses used
by indigenous educational activists comes into conflict with the more
pragmatic discourses of indigenous political leaders, who are seen as
moving on the outside. In other words, we began to see a constellation
of dynamic forms of identification functioning within an intercultural
space that could be comprehended through the use of an opposition
whose contents were entirely relative to the political juncture. What this
paired notion allowed us to do was to evaluate the broader constella-
tion of indigenous politics from the standpoint of organizational ac-
tors at particular political junctures.
Such distinctions extended beyond the purview of our discussion
group. Debates over inside and outside were also taking place on a
more general level in the organization, particularly over whether col-
laborators should more properly be considered as external “advisors”
instead of their present status as integral to the movement. The political
leadership of CRIC and many of its militants questioned whether indig-
enous cultural activists should be associated long-term with programs
in the regional office, or whether they should more properly rotate into
community-based positions. Nasa-speaking activists repeatedly noted
the differences between their political practice and that of monolingual
Spanish-speaking Nasas, who make up a good half of the Nasa popula-
tion. In other words, our adoption of the inside/outside conceptual pair
echoed the concerns of many of CRIC’s activists.
A brief excursion through our team meetings illustrates how we en-
gaged this pair of metaphors, both to interpret the political develop-
ments we were studying and to evaluate our group methodology. The
inside/outside opposition was employed by Nasa team members to
refer to cultural revitalization efforts meant to “protect” those inside
from external influences. However, they asserted that it is only by strad-
dling the boundary between inside and outside that indigenous leaders
(or researchers, for that matter) can innovate, thereby maintaining the
integrity of the inside. Inside and outside are necessarily intermeshed;
control of movement across the two poles is an urgent political respon-
sibility of Native researchers. Perdomo (at the time of our meetings, a
“traditional authority”—as local elected leaders are called—in the com-
munity of Pitayó) reflected on this issue at a team meeting, speaking
simultaneously as a leader and an analyst:
We’ve had to reorient ourselves to reach the frontier. The great thing
that might happen is that . . . as people reach the border in the course
of the [organizing] process . . . [this reorienting] will be useful so that
they establish other proposals, other strategies, so that the people who
must reach the border return stronger. . . . I think that the frontier isn’t
as dangerous if I’m inside it. . . . But I am concerned, one, that this
research project strengthens us on the inside; two, that it strengthens
those of us who are on the frontier; and three, that this research
helps the . . . Nasa community to seek strategies, so that they become
conscious about what is happening and so that they no longer have to
wait for us to reorient ourselves and go to the frontier to value what is
ours and return to rework it. (Adonías Perdomo, August 3, 1999)
This is a very complex statement because it indicates that the actors

themselves are acutely aware of the ambivalences and the borrowings
that accompany processes of cultural revitalization. In fact, our meth-
odology required that all of us straddle the frontier.
Perdomo’s statement demonstrates that inside/outside was key not
only to making sense of our methodological objectives but also to the
way research could nourish the political objectives of indigenous in-
tellectuals. Myriam Amparo Espinosa, the Colombian anthropologist
on the team, employed the opposition to question traditional ethno-
graphic research and to underline the ways in which our nascent col-
lective would have to rethink the purpose of our collaboration. In one
exchange, Perdomo argued that we needed to move away from defin-
ing research through the individuals who engage in it (he employed the
Spanish form por, or “by,” used to denote authorship) to a reconceptu-
alization of research with a collective purpose (para, or “for”). Espinosa
responded that we would have to rethink what it meant to write up our
research:
As to the results of the research, I think it would be a good exercise if

they came out as a text. But that already limits the “para”—that is, the
external “para.” For whom externally? For the outside researchers. Or
for whom internally? For the Nasa researchers. For whom especially?
(Myriam Amparo Espinosa, June 10–11, 1999)
In this exchange, the inside/outside opposition did not force us into

rigid dichotomies but enabled us to explore the heterogeneity of both
the indigenous movement and of academia.
In particular, it led us to deepen our appreciation of the variety of
audiences on the inside and the relationship among them. Piñacué re-
peatedly questioned the culturalist discourses of the urban-based re-
gional intellectuals of CRIC, including herself, who have constructed a
proposal for “Nasa culture” that is to be propagated in local communi-
ties: “Should we speak of a Nasa identity? Or of identities at the level of
the community?” She asked this because she felt that
we are undergoing a cultural crisis at the cultural level among the

[Nasa] people. Because in effect, I see my future as fragmented, frag-
mented in the sense of being immersed in many political, economic,
religious interests, so that ultimately, we are folklorizing or roman-
ticizing the discourse of an elite that has left its community and
attempted to frame its culture to benefit its own interests. (Susana
Piñacué, August 3, 1999)

Here, Piñacué critiques the very work of the cultural “insiders” located
on the frontier. Implicitly, she is questioning her own frontier position
as inherently dangerous.
Piñacué wonders whether, in the final instance, her own work is writ-
ten from the “outside,” a general problem for autoethnographers that
North American team member David Gow expressed by noting that
some of Perdomo’s work “was clearly written from the inside,” while in
other instances, it “could have been written by an external anthropolo-
gist, who’d worked so many years with the Nasa that he knew them,
had their trust” (David Gow, July 2, 2000). Such tension originates in
the anthropological models that have persistently dogged Native re-
searchers and cultural activists, restraining the kind of methodological
and theoretical innovation that we were attempting to pursue.
But Piñacué’s preoccupations with the outsider status of indigenous
intellectuals also points to the very real methodological differences be-
tween Nasa researchers and academic ethnographers, which our proj-
ect sought to bridge, although not to erase. Earlier, I suggested that
Piñacué and Perdomo employed introspective approaches centering on
the creation of typologies in Nasa Yuwe. Their insistence upon the in-
side/outside opposition and the ways in which they speak of it in rela-
tion to their own positionings indicates that their research methodol-
ogy also involves using themselves as measures for making sense of the
dynamics of the regional indigenous movement. Piñacué’s individual
research project centered on the relationship among a heterogeneous
set of Nasa women within CRIC. Employing what she hopes is a Nasa
frame of reference, she places them in three categories framed in Nasa
Yuwe: elderly, monolingual women who “live like Nasa”; those, like
her, who work in the regional office in the city of Popayán and “think
as Nasa”; and those occupying local-level leadership roles who only
“move about as Nasa,” a subtle set of distinctions that positions differ-
ent types of activists at distances relative to everyday Nasa experience
(Piñacué Achicué 2005; Rappaport 2005a: 100–102). The three catego-
ries occupy distinct grades of “insiderness.” While the elderly women
anchor her typology, activists who “think as Nasa” and have the ability
to mentor those who simply “move about as Nasa” hold, in Piñacué’s
interpretation, the ultimate responsibility for cultural revitalization (al-
though they also run the greatest risks). Her typology leads me to sur-
mise that more than the collection of ethnographic material, research
by CRIC’s cultural activists involves soul-searching and deeply reflex-
ive attempts at tracing political relationships, providing interpretive
frameworks steeped in subjective sentiments.
Clearly, Piñacué is no essentialist. However, our debates about the
heterogeneity of the inside led us increasingly to consider why the exi-
gencies of politics internal to organizations force leaders and cultural
activists to deploy discourses of ethnic difference and cultural stasis.
Numerous scholars have dwelled upon the essentialism that appears
to characterize indigenous identity politics, ranging between those
who critique such discourses out of hand as inauthentic (Hanson 1989;
Linnekin 1983) and those who see essentialist discourses as politically
strategic (Friedman 1994; Spivak and Grosz 1990; Warren 1998). Les
Field (1999a) transcends what is perhaps a sterile disagreement to as-
sert that the deployment of constructionist and essentialist discours-
es in Native American circles in the United States is more a product
of the balancing of political priorities than the either/or debate that
has raged in the academic literature (see also Fischer 1999). Myriam
Amparo Espinosa notes such a tension in the work of both Perdomo
and Piñacué, leading her to question how they use the notions of inside
and outside:
It’s the constant duality between inside and outside. I don’t know
if Nasa culture identifies dualisms or if it is in the construction of
the text. Because this problem of the inside/outside dyad lends an
essentialist character [to your argument], as though something
already existing were being constantly disrupted. (Myriam Amparo
Espinosa, July 2, 2000)
Piñacué responded to Espinosa’s question by stating that the inside/

outside dyad is constantly voiced in communities, making it a discur-
sive reality. However, Piñacué’s political positioning on the inside, cou-
pled with her need to move between inside and outside in the conduct
of her research, leads to a very particular use of the dyad that constantly
shifts between essential culturalist discourses and more constructivist
social analysis.
While external analysts have expressed an overriding concern about
the essentialism of ethnic actors, the indigenous members of our team
worried about the inverse: that collaborators were the ones who were
guilty of essentialism, not indigenous activists. In the following quo-
tation, Piñacué points to the persistent desire of nonindigenous aca-
demics to privilege specific political junctures that capture the atten-
tion of the broader public, such as, for example, regional mobilizations
in which the indigenous movement comes into confrontation with the
Caucan elite and with nonindigenous popular movements. At such mo-
ments, we appreciate indigenous actors as a homogenous group that
stands as a counterpart to an equally homogenous dominant society,
losing sight of the conflicts, negotiations, and ambivalent positions
within the indigenous sphere. Piñacué, who belongs to an influential
Nasa family—her brother, Jesús Enrique Piñacué, is a former president
of CRIC and currently a member of the Colombian Senate—has long
been dogged by the criticism that she is not “culturally Nasa.” The am-
bivalence of her own identity becomes a point of departure for her cri-
tique of academics in an exchange she had with Espinosa:
Maybe it’s because you’re Amparo and I’m Susana, and I identify
more [as a Nasa]—although they say that they identify me more as
a [nonindigenous] mestiza but also as indigenous—that I look at my
problem in a panorama. So I have no single focus, I try to explore
everything without situating myself or obligating myself [to a single
position]. But the fact is that Amparo has an academic trajectory and a
point of reference among other academics, a profession that absorbs
her and to which she must belong, so that you don’t observe the
panorama around us and what’s important in this space is to register
the entire dynamic. (Susana Piñacué, January 17, 2000)
Piñacué chides Espinosa—and the rest of us—for not appreciating the

complex dynamics at work on the “inside,” which would mitigate our
appreciation of indigenous actors. She implores us academics to shift
our perspective and look beyond the dyad, to think more in terms of a
set of nested categories than a simple opposition. She can do this be-
cause she perceives the inside and the outside to be nested within her-
self, a sensation akin to Espinosa’s experience as a political collabora-
tor with CRIC:
At first they told me that I was really a Nasa at heart. Right? And later I
discovered that I was more Nasa than the Nasa themselves. OK? That
happens to many of us collaborators, although we really never stop
being the Other. (Myriam Amparo Espinosa, June 10–11, 1999)

What Espinosa ultimately recognizes is that a collaborator’s posi-
tioning “inside” in the service of the indigenous organization will al-
ways remain under debate, given the fact that the movement speaks for
the Native community. In this sense, it is only through dialogue that
we outsiders can appreciate the extent to which inside and outside are
nested in the interior of the indigenous sphere. It is not so much that
we are unable to capture the richness of the operation of this opposi-
tion but that we do not have the authority to do so. That authority only
comes through collaboration with our Nasa colleagues, whose self-re-
flexive interpretative moves entered into a corrective dialogue with our
academic analytical tools. Inside and outside were thus not only ana-
lytical tools but the very spaces in which we were forced to continually
position and reposition ourselves as researchers.
Conclusion: Why Collaborate?

The process of co-theorizing we engaged in brought forth tangible in-
tellectual results in the academic arena. In particular, it provided alter-
natives to current debates over whether or not the discourse of indige-
nous activists is essentialist (or strategically essentialist). It emphasized
the sophistication of these actors and underlined the fact that we can-
not compare their culturalist constructs to those of anthropologists but
must begin to comprehend them on their own terms. It also opened
an important window onto the pluralist nature of indigenous organiz-
ing, a political project in which Native activists work side by side with
nonindigenous collaborators. Finally, it furnished a viable alternative
to current ethnographic practice, taking methodologies like Vasco’s in
new directions and suggesting that as North American ethnographers
we might look toward the national anthropologies of Latin America as
sources of methodological innovation.
Would those of us on the outside have heeded the suggestions of our
Nasa colleagues had our conversations not been framed by a collabora-
tive project? I do not think so because we would not have been as aware
of the possibilities that lay before us. I conclude by considering how
the inside/outside opposition was of use to me as an anthropologist. (I
leave it to Piñacué and Perdomo to reflect on its utility in their activist
lives.) In my opinion, this pair of concepts helped me understand the
conceptual impasse between anthropological notions of ethnicity of
the sort pioneered by Barth (1969) that emphasize “groupness” or eth-
nic boundaries without paying heed to the broader political context in
which indigenous organizations have affected the national conscience,
and the new social movement literature, which does not effectively ex-
plain the place of culture in these movements.
The Barthian notion of ethnicity is problematic for making sense
of the multiple and contradictory processes of identification that have
been harnessed by indigenous political actors to contend with both
their organizational needs and their own subjectivities as cosmopoli-
tan intellectuals. Anthropological treatments of ethnicity focus on how
individuals negotiate ethnic boundaries, not how political organiza-
tions—which are themselves palimpsests of multiple ethnic boundar-
ies that are continually negotiated and renegotiated—create and main-
tain them. What is needed is a new look at who participates in identity
politics, at how intercultural organizations create new forms of iden-
tification and negotiate the fluid boundaries of their constituencies.
The participation of nonindigenous collaborators in indigenous move-
ments seems crucial to me in this necessary move away from an ethnic-
ity paradigm, as it homes in on the intercultural space in which new
indigenous identities are under discussion. Nevertheless, I know of only
two scholarly takes on indigenous organizing that recognize the role of
non-Natives in these movements (Caviedes 2003; Laurent 2006).
Central to the processes of identification going on at the heart of
indigenous organizations are culturalist discourses, which appear
essentialist because they promote Native practices as though they
were contained within stable and bounded cultural frameworks. The
Barthian model of ethnicity eschews culture in favor of examining
the dynamics of boundary negotiation. But culture, particularly as a
self-conscious process of construction, is fundamental to indigenous
discourses and cannot be neglected in our analysis. At an early team
meeting, Piñacué drove this home by turning the idea of authenticity
on its head: “To be authentic is to increasingly demonstrate what we
dream. . . . To be authentic is to draw closer, to make our dreams a reality,
so that as we approach our dreams we become more authentic” (Susana
Piñacué, January 17, 2000; italics mine). What Piñacué is telling us is
that for indigenous activists, culture is not an existing constellation
of practices and meanings located on the “inside” but a projection of
how future lifeways should look, driven by a process in which elements
of the inside are revitalized through the incorporation of ideas from
outside; that is, culture necessarily straddles the frontier. This is not
a strategic deployment of essentializing discourses to describe what
exists “out there” but a model of what “should be,” a blueprint for
the future.13 As a result, indigenous activists’ deployments of culture
cannot be equated with ethnography. Their purpose is different. While
ethnographers engage in cultural description with an eye to analyzing
it, indigenous autoethnographers study culture to act upon it (Asad
1986; Briones 2005, 61). Piñacué and Perdomo were forced to examine
their own subjectivities to accomplish this task, to question how and
why they, as intellectuals, experienced their Nasa identity and whether
that experience could lend them the authority to construct a new
cultural practice for other Nasa. Their participation in the team was
introspective, self-conscious, practical, and utopian.
Now, such blueprints are heterogeneous and constantly under
debate, adopted within certain contexts and rejected in others. This was
apparent in our team discussion, where Piñacué and Perdomo spent a
great deal of time critiquing various models for intercultural democratic
participation, the reintroduction of indigenous cosmologies, the
construction of house-gardens, and other CRIC projects which, on
the surface, appear as though they were ethnographic descriptions of
what exists, and not proposals for what should be. They also devoted
discussion time to exploring the political intentions and the actors
behind some of these projects, emphasizing that what looks like
objective ethnography is shot through with interests not always apparent
to the outside observer. The very appreciation of whether indigenous
research produces ethnographies or blueprints marked multiple
positionings inside and outside of the movement. Collaborators and
academics, located on the nonindigenous outside, frequently take
Native research to be an objective description of existing culture,
while Nasa-speaking activists on the inside saw them as projections
toward the future. Similarly, local activists sometimes adopt blueprints
uncritically in their presentation of self, as though they were stable
cultural traits. Of course, the dynamics of our team also sometimes led
Perdomo and Piñacué to represent cultural forms as ethnographic (as
opposed to projections) in an effort to differentiate themselves from the
rest of us, in a kind of “It’s a Nasa thing. You wouldn’t understand.” On
these occasions our Nasa colleagues, tongue in cheek, very consciously
deployed essentializations strategically.
Rodgers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper (2000, 1) offer a compelling
critique of antiessentialist arguments as they had been employed in the
study of new social movements, one that is highly pertinent to the topic
of collaborative theorizing. They argue that constructivist apologies of
strategic essentialism leave scholars without a conceptual handle with
which to analyze the power of the categories used in identity politics.
They distinguish between “categories of practice” and “analytical
categories,” the first embedded in the essentializing discourses of
groups advocating identity politics and the second the province of
constructivist analysts (2000, 4, 33). It is the gap between the two, they
argue, that precludes effective analysis of identity, forcing observers
to uncritically adopt discourses that are more appropriate to political
action than to analysis.
In the course of our collaborative theorizing, we merged these
two poles in various ways. We all engaged in organizational work as
an integral part of our projects, either as indigenous activists or as
collaborators, forcing us to move back and forth between the practical
sphere and the analytic sphere. Although this exercise was particularly
important for Perdomo and Piñacué, who continually had to rethink in
the space of team discussion the conceptual categories they employed
in their activism, it also left a significant mark on the academics, who
in the past had either assumed a purely observational stance or had
compartmentalized research and advocacy. Our team dialogue provided
an important window onto how each of us, from our distinct subject
positions, experienced this required movement between practice and
analysis, albeit in different ways, as we simultaneously engaged these
constructs in the work of conceptualizing our team methodology and
collaborated in ongoing organizational projects. Piñacué and Perdomo
conceptualized our meetings as mingas, an Andean form of labor-
sharing, conveying through metaphor how we reconceptualized the
“work” in fieldwork. In other words, we were transformed through
collaboration in ways that both exposed the fallacies of Brubacker and
Cooper’s dichotomy and demonstrated that it is possible to derive new
insights as analysts as a result of the realignment of our agendas and
conceptual toolkits in conversation with activists.
While much of what we learned about Caucan politics can be acquired
through close proximity to an indigenous organization, collaboration
provides access to the kinds of internal discussions an external eth-
nographer would not normally be privy. But it goes further than that.
Perdomo and Piñacué’s constant deepening of the nested meanings of
inside and outside provided a conceptual handle through which we were
able to make sense of the complex situation that was unfolding. They
not only provided us with opportunities for ethnographic observation
but also shared their own analytical tools. This sharing compelled the
nonindigenous team members to radically shift our understanding of
the nature of ethnographic dialogue. We were not led to essentialize.
In fact, we were entreated to do entirely the opposite: to focus on the
ambivalences and heterogeneities of indigenous politics because
Perdomo and Piñacué’s appreciation of the movement provided them
with an approximation of the shifting ground upon which they could
construct and negotiate their cultural blueprints. They had to engage
in constructivist analysis in order to propose seemingly essentialist
futures for the Nasa. We had to follow their line of reasoning in order
to maintain the dialogue. I do not think we academics would have
comprehended as profoundly what we were seeing, if not for the ways
that Perdomo and Piñacué forced us to mine the depths of the inside/
outside distinction; instead, we would have remained mired in CRIC’s
culturalist discourse, which looks essentialist. Of course, in the end,
we would write ethnography, while they would develop blueprints,
something that was never in dispute. But our ethnography would be
different from what it was before, adopting what Paul Gilroy (1993)
has termed an “anti-anti-essentialist” perspective, which, through
complicity—and not just intellectual but also political—melded the
urgency and utopian standpoint of Perdomo and Piñacué with the thick
description of “good ethnography.”
The kind of ethnographic methodology I espouse in this article is not
for everyone. It demands a level of commitment to long-term dialogue
that is not possible for all scholars, a degree of trust that comes from
years of working in the same place (particularly in the delicate situation
of Colombia, where grassroots organizations’ integrity is at stake) and,
most important, a group of interlocutors who can take the lead in co-
theorizing. However, our experience also bears lessons for those who
do not choose to engage in collaboration. Contemporary discussions
of how anthropology operates in the world (Field and Fox 2007)
force academics to engage ideas and methodologies beyond the ivory
tower of the university, something that many Colombian (and other
Latin American) anthropologists realized long ago. The concepts we
encounter when we step out into the world should be incorporated
into ethnographic interpretation. Indeed, conceptual vehicles that
emerge from spaces that we have ignored in the past (the writings
and discourses of the indigenous intellectuals of whom I write are but
one example) can be discovered outside of a collaborative research
relationship by simply paying attention to their presence, at the same
time that we pay heed to other anthropological approaches that have
historically engaged them. By entering into an intellectual dialogue
with these ideas, we establish a horizontal form of complicity in which
we acknowledge the capacity of ethnography’s Other to theorize and to
occupy locations similar to those of academic ethnographers.
• • • • •
joanne rappaport teaches anthropology at Georgetown University. In addition
to her books in English, Cumbe Reborn (1994), The Politics of Memory (1998), and
Intercultural Utopias (2005), she is coauthor with Graciela Bolaños, Abelardo
Ramos, and Carlos Miñana of ¿Qué pasaría si la escuela . . .? Treinta años de construcción
educativa (2004), a study of CRIC’s bilingual education program, published by
the organization, and editor of Retornando la mirada (2005), an edited volume by
members of the collaborative team highlighted in this article. She is currently
working on an ethnography of Latin American collaborative research teams and
continues to work with CRIC in the training of indigenous researchers.
Notes
The research from which this article is drawn was conducted with southern Colombian
indigenous organizations between 1996 and 2002, with the support of the Graduate
School of Georgetown University, the Instituto Colombiano de Antropología (under
a grant awarded by Colciencias), and an international collaborative grant from the
Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. I am particularly grateful to the
two interethnic collaborative teams with which I worked during this period, and which
served as a space in which indigenous and nonindigenous researchers could engage in
coanalysis: Graciela Bolaños, Myriam Amparo Espinosa, David Gow, Adonías Perdomo,
Susana Piñacué, Abelardo Ramos, and Tulio Rojas. I am also indebted to a number of
Colombian researchers whose ethnographic practice and thinking has served as a model
for me, especially Orlando Fals Borda, Myriam Jimeno Santoyo, Pilar Riaño-Alcalá, and
Luis Guillermo Vasco, as well as for critical comments, to Denise Brennan, Claudia
Briones, Les Field, Gelya Frank, Charles Hale, and the anonymous reviewers for this
article. Versions of this paper have been presented at Georgetown University, Harvard
University, Universidad de Antioquia, and Universidad Nacional de Colombia; I thank
the students at these institutions for their enthusiastic and perceptive commentaries.
The work of Luke Eric Lassiter, Elaine Lawless, and Robin Ridington and Dennis
Hastings has prodded me to deepen my appreciation of what constitutes collaborative
research.

1. See the program description at http://lasa.international.pitt.edu/specialprojects/
otrossaberes.html.
2. The public anthropology Web site www.publicanthropology.org/Defining/
definingpa.htm defines the collaborative endeavor in the following terms:
Public anthropology demonstrates the ability of anthropology and anthropologists
to effectively address problems beyond the discipline—illuminating the larger
social issues of our times as well as encouraging broad, public conversations about
them with the explicit goal of fostering social change. It affirms our responsibility,
as scholars and citizens, to meaningfully contribute to communities beyond the
academy—both local and global—that make the study of anthropology possible.
Hale’s definition of activist anthropology is, “the institutionalized practice of collab-
orative and politically engaged scholarship” (Hale 2007, 104).
3. If we focus exclusively on the research topics of contemporary Colombian
anthropologists, we will not mine the depths of social engagement among academics
there, given that in the past two decades scholars writing from northern locations have
paid equal attention to Colombia’s pressing social and political issues, including the
study of violence (Riaño-Alcalá 2006), but also racial and ethnic politics (Ng’weno 2007)
and human rights discourse (Tate 2007). For one, Colombian scholars were probing
such issues long before the rest of us comprehended their importance (Arocha 1979;
Friedemann 1975; Jimeno and Triana 1985). The earliest anthropologists, now in their
eighties, actively pursued the study of such issues as sharecropping and land loss,
forging contact with the forerunners of the indigenous movement.
4. A Colombian archaeologist, Martha Urdaneta, was also invited to engage in
collaborative research with a Guambiano archaeological team (Urdaneta Franco 1988).
5. There are also North American examples of what I am calling co-theorizing,
although they are less explicitly political than my Colombian example. In Holy Women,
Wholly Women, Elaine Lawless (1993) recounts her experience with female ministers
in mainstream Protestant denominations. In addition to collecting their life stories,
Lawless engages in what she calls “reciprocal ethnography,” a process of interpreting
the autobiographies with the narrators themselves through her interventions in focus
groups that these women invited her to attend; her exegetical exchanges with them are an
integral part of her text, allowing the reader to follow closely the collaborative process.
The result is a series of new insights into how women recount their life experiences,
demonstrating crucial differences from characterizations of women’s life history made
in the academic literature.
6. The construction of picture-maps drew upon the previous experiences of Colombian
activists with the neighboring Nasa ethnic group, by whom a series of thematic maps
depicting key moments in Nasa history were produced as a tool for teaching and
reflection, and for stimulating land-claims activities (Bonilla 1982). Bonilla’s picture-
map project was part of the program of La Rosca de Investigación y Acción Social, the
organization that pioneered participatory action research in Colombia.
7. Chow’s usage of the term “autoethnography,” which I will return to later in this
article, is most appropriate for those whom she calls the “formerly ethnographized,”
(1995, 180) those who have traditionally occupied a subordinate position in the
ethnographic encounter.
8. Among the Guambiano members of the research team were individuals with
advanced degrees as well as elders who had read widely. My own experience in Colombia

indicates that older activists with limited schooling are not unaware of the ethnography
and history of their region and of the even larger corpus of political analysis by the left.
That is to say, they are as sophisticated as elite informants, albeit in different ways.
9. I frequently come into contact with students anxious to engage in collaborative
research. What the Guambiano history project suggests is that the academic counterpart
in a collaborative venture must bring a wealth of experience to the table and that the
challenge of collaborative research—at least, in the sense I am proposing, of co-
theorization—can be better met by someone who already knows how to do good
ethnography. This does not, however, cancel out the value for both ethnographer and
community of more modest forms of collaboration, such as engaging in research at
the request of a community, followed by a communal evaluation of the results of that
work (Speed 2007), or assisting research subjects in a broad range of endeavors, such as
translation, note-taking at meetings, or providing essential information (Sawyer 2004).
10. The joint interpretation of Guambiano history exemplifies a collaborative
project in which external ethnographers and internal autoethnographers cooperate
on a common research objective. Co-theorization can take a different tack, however,
permitting groups of researchers, both internal and external, to use material they have
collected in the course of their individual research projects to solve pressing issues that
transcend their research agendas. The example I have in mind is an Argentine research
group studying indigenous affairs at the University of Buenos Aires composed of
academics and native people (Briones et al. 2007). Here, it is difficult to draw the line
between ethnographer and subject, in part because some of the Mapuche members
of the team are also academics, while some of the academic team-members are from
Patagonian cities with large Mapuche populations, thus departing from the stereotype
of the Buenos Aires–bred academic. In addition, all of the team members would see
themselves as simultaneously engaging in research and activism. In this article, the four
authors came together to evaluate the context in which neoliberal governments have
opted to recognize indigenous rights, a topic that has received attention from other
anthropologists (Hale 2002). Their discussions sought to counter the solitary task of the
anthropologist, who is frequently seen as an “expert,” in contrast to local people (2007,
72). At the same time, the four discussants hoped to break down dichotomies between
ethnographers and “informants”:
We also wanted to question the fragmentation that underlies the notion of polyphony,
which leads us to the formation of contrasting, closed discursive blocks emphasizing
the differences among our trajectories and coincidences. We wanted to avoid formats
in which the “indigenous voice” would appear as an ethnographic record in the
service of “anthropological writing.” (2007, 72)
In contrast, they hoped to illustrate that it is possible to engage in collaborative analysis
as actors who draw as much on their ethnicity and profession as on their generational
positions, the places in which they were raised, their specific articulations with the
indigenous movement, and the theories with which they buttress their remarks, that is,
as actors with heterogeneous social trajectories (2007, 73). The reader cannot identify
any distinctly “Mapuche” discourse, although there are clear differences in the level of
specificity at which each of the participants situated her or his analysis. There is no one
who can clearly be identified as “ethnographer” or as “subject,” although there is an
intense collaboration taking place. This is a case of co-theorizing in which the distinct
lines of analysis are not so clearly drawn between ethnographer and subject but merge
in myriad ways.

11. CRIC has a strong institutional presence in Cauca, controlling the educational
systems of most Nasa communities and administering health programs for the
indigenous population. Notwithstanding its legitimacy as an organization providing
assistance to communities, CRIC also has a long history of clashes with the state,
beginning with its early policy of occupying lands stolen from communities and its
support in the 1980s of an indigenous guerrilla organization (Rappaport 2005b).
Thus, its position vis-à-vis the Colombian state is contestatory and critical, and it
has been at various moments in its history branded as leftist. Colombian indigenous
communities are organized in resguardos, collective landholding corporations validated
by colonial title. The resguardo is governed by a cabildo, an annually elected council that
is commonly referred to in movement parlance as a “traditional authority.” Regional
indigenous organizations are not generally recognized as “traditional authorities,”
although their leaderships are selected by cabildos. For more on the tensions that have
erupted around the legitimacy of the leadership of regional and national organizations,
see Jackson (2002).
12. It is difficult to gauge the impact of our collaboration on the organizations with
which we worked, particularly CRIC. The team’s major contribution to the Caucan
indigenous movement was in its commitment to a horizontal dialogue and to the
creation of a common research methodology, a significant goal given that Colombian
indigenous organizations are engaged in a broad array of research projects in the
areas of customary law, education, and health, frequently operating at odds with the
provincial academic establishment. Our methodology was aired among cultural activists
affiliated with CRIC’s bilingual-intercultural education program but was not discussed
with the political leadership. Thus it would be presumptuous on my part to suggest
that co-theorization had an impact on CRIC’s general politics, although it was engaged
with interest by the programs in which many of CRIC’s research activities take place.
However, our work did culminate in a number of tangible results, such as a history of
CRIC’s bilingual education program (Bolaños et al. 2004) and a text on gender relations
in Nasa society for use by local women’s organizations (Pancho, Bolaños, and Piñacué
2004), both of which have a wide readership in the organization. Team members also
participated in a range of local workshops on gender, the Nasa alphabet, alternative
development, local history, and customary law; these were much more about the
content of our projects than about our methodology. The Nasa team members have
intimated to me that the experience profoundly influenced their continued practice
in the organization, especially in boosting their self-confidence and rigor as activist-
researchers and in helping them with their writing. At an internal CRIC meeting in the
late spring of 2008, held to discuss the expansion of their research agenda through the
training of several hundred new researchers in an indigenous university that CRIC had
recently founded, Piñacué made it clear to me that her position on indigenous research
was forged in the cauldron of our team meetings.
13. Researchers who participated in the founding of CRIC in the early 1970s called
this a process of “critical recuperation” of cultural forms, which were subsequently
reappropriated in the interests of struggle (Bonilla et al. 1972, 51–52).
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joanne rappaport, Georgetown University

The past decade has witnessed a growing interest in collaborative

an approach to ethnography that deliberately and explicitly emphasizes

Colombian Anthropology and Social Engagement

Collaborative Research as a Vehicle for Theory Building

Co-Theorization with the Colombian Indigenous Movement

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 11

Conversely, many of the academic members of the team entered into

“Inside” and “Outside”

This is a very complex statement because it indicates that the actors

As to the results of the research, I think it would be a good exercise if

In this exchange, the inside/outside opposition did not force us into

we are undergoing a cultural crisis at the cultural level among the

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 15

Piñacué responded to Espinosa’s question by stating that the inside/

Piñacué chides Espinosa—and the rest of us—for not appreciating the

18 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008

Conclusion: Why Collaborate?

24 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 25

26 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 27

28 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 29

30 • collaborative anthropologies • volume 1 • 2008

Rappaport • Beyond Participant Observation • 31

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